


Dawn

by illwick



Series: Unwind [30]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark(ish) Sherlock, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use (Past), Established Relationship, M/M, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Prostate Milking, Rough Sex, Switching, Topping from the Bottom, bottom!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 20:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21003671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: When past and present collide, Sherlock finds sanctuary in the only true home he knows.





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still working on the as-promised case fic, but this little plot bunny hopped into my head and demanded to have its way with me. Please heed the tags; there are explicit descriptions of (past) drug use that could be construed as glamorized if taken out of context.
> 
> And my usual disclaimer when I write a switch-fic: Please don’t read this if Sherlock topping squicks you out. Top!John will be back in true form in the next installment.

It’s barely dawn when Sherlock wakes, but he doesn’t need daylight to know where he is.

The shapes are all familiar: the dark silhouettes of the furniture, the drape of the curtains, the symmetrical diamond grid cast by the windowpanes across the floor. The smells: of books and dust and fresh detergent and perhaps ancient traces of clandestine cigarette smoke lingering at the borders.

Some of the sensations are the same, like the unwound spring in the mattress that perpetually digs into his left kidney, and the smooth silk of the sheets he’d begged for two weeks after his fifth birthday, when certain tactile sensations started to become so overwhelming he’d often be reduced to tears by the aggravation against his skin. Other sensations are newer, like the sound of a second heart beating in tandem with his own, and the feeling of a warm body strong and solid in his arms.

Being back at his childhood home is… difficult. But it is his mother’s 70th birthday this weekend. So of course he’s here.

But perhaps _‘of course’ _is a bit too generous. He’d missed her 60th birthday. Her 50th, too, for that matter. But he’s here for her 70th because John declared they were going, and he’ll go where John goes, so here they are.

It isn’t easy, watching John with his parents. He hates himself for thinking that, but it’s true. He watches John navigate their interactions with his trademark effervescent, infuriatingly casual grace, and it fills Sherlock with gratitude but at the same time a thick, toxic fog that he’s only recently identified as _jealousy._

He’s jealous that this all comes so naturally to John. Being a son. And a father and a partner and a friend. John can’t look at a man and deduce his past, assess his motives, or predict his next move. But John _can_ listen to a man and understand what he’s feeling, empathize with his motives, and provide him with sympathy and counsel. He knows what’s _good_ and _not good_ without stopping to think about it. When he speaks, he doesn’t say things that are considered _rude_ or _hurtful _or _unnecessary._ And he can do it all without even _trying;_ it just comes naturally to him. And it’s infuriating.

Sherlock knows it’s not fair to begrudge John any of this. After all, that’s what makes John the perfect mate; they balance one another out, provide a foil to each other’s most basic impulses, and compensate for one another’s faults. It’s a good match. A good compromise. But sometimes Sherlock feels like maybe John got the short end of the stick, when it came to getting stuck with him. And he hates that.

He hates how naturally John swoops in to help his mother clear the table when they finish a meal. He hates now effortless it is for John to join his father stocking the wood pile as they chat and laugh and discuss trivial things like _sport. _ He hates it because he sees how _happy_ John makes them. And how much John enjoys pleasing them.

Sherlock can’t remember a time when his parents were _pleased_ with him.

Granted, it’s not like he went out of his way to impress them.

Looking back, it’s hard to say how it all started; whether Sherlock had always been aloof and belligerent, or if he grew to be that way as a result of his _difficult _childhood.

He didn’t _mean_ to be difficult. At least, not initially, not that he can recall. All he knows is that for as long as he could remember, he failed to _connect_ with other human beings the way he was supposed to. When he was a child, his antics were too _peculiar_ for his peers, and his multitude of “quirks” (tactile sensitivity, his complete obliviousness to jokes and humour, his crippling awkwardness in social situations, and his extreme fixation on the macabre) made him unpopular at school.

He could hardly wait for the day he left for Eton. He’d grown up hearing tales of his uncles’ escapades there, and the more he read up on the school, the more excited he became. It was a _prestigious_ institute, he learned. _Elite._ One of the best in the _world_. He envisioned a life in which he could immerse himself fully in his studies, holed up in a great gothic library or state-of-the-art lab and lose himself in facts and figures, things that made _ sense. _ Things that actually _ mattered. _ At Eton, he determined, he could live a life of _purpose_ and free himself of the mundane frivolities of the outside world.

But Eton, he soon discovered, was elite not in the _calibre_ of pupil, but instead in their calibre of wealth and breeding. He found himself suffocatingly surrounded by infuriatingly posh _children_ who cared little for their studies and seemed more intent on hazing the younger pupils than reaching the loftiest heights the academic world could offer. He tried to avoid all of that nonsense, but it proved near impossible. During his F Block, he was suspended six times for fighting (which he soon learned was code for _getting the shit beat out of you by someone whose family had more money than yours)_. E Block was a year of merciless bullying over his presumed sexuality and subsequent self-imposed isolation. D Block consisted of his first drugs bust and eventual expulsion.

The drugs weren’t even his. They belonged to his roommate, Edward. But Edward’s father was an MP. So Sherlock went home.

He had his first hit when he was fifteen. He remembers that day so clearly: it’s preserved in pristine perfection on the top floor of the west wing of his Mind Palace.

He’d met Alice three weeks before. He’d been taking a shortcut home from school through a small wooded area by the main row when he came upon a girl sitting on a tree stump, staring at something. Curious, he walked up behind her to see what she was looking at.

It was a dead crow, legs akimbo, wings splayed, its eyes swarming with maggots. The girl was holding a sketch pad and drawing it in vibrant detail. Her illustration was… breathtaking.

She didn’t turn around. “Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock breathed. Cool indeed.

Three weeks later they were in Alice’s bedroom, listening to a record by The Doors. Alice was sketching, lying on her back on her bed with her feet up on the wall, her combat boots scuffing the powder blue paint. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor pretending to do his chemistry homework, but he was actually trying to subtly inspect Alice’s eyebrow piercing. He wondered how it had felt to get it. It must have hurt. He found the thought confusingly alluring.

Her pencil paused above the page and she turned her head to look at him. Embarrassed, he reverted his eyes back to his textbook, but Alice just smirked. He couldn’t get anything past her. He loved that about her.

“Hey. You wanna get high?”

“Um.” Sherlock met her eyes nervously. “What about your parents?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Please. They won’t be home from work for hours. We can have some fun in the meantime.”

She kicked her feet off the wall and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then made her way to the corner and pulled up a loose floorboard. She pulled out a small black box and gave it a little shake in his direction. “Pick your poison.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and gave a little shrug. From his time at Eton he knew _about _drugs, but they were something the _cool_ kids did. They sure as hell never invited him to partake. “Whatever you want.”

Alice laughed and reached inside, then pulled out a plastic bag filled with tiny white pills. She shuffled forward on her knees until they were face to face, eye to eye, breath intermingling. She plucked out a pill and placed it delicately on her tongue. Then she reached forward, tangled her fingers in his hair, and pulled him in for a kiss. His tongue sought hers, and he could feel the lump of the pill as she pressed it resolutely into his mouth. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

She pulled back and grinned wickedly at him, then popped one into her own mouth. “Enjoy.” She waggled her eyebrows impishly.

Sherlock blinked back at her as the pill dissolved on his tongue, his face flushing in mortification. “You… um, you know I’m not… into… into girls, right?”

“I know. Don’t worry so much about everything, yeah? Just do what feels good. Stop thinking about what it means.”

It sounded like excellent advice.

Suddenly she stood, giving her long locks a toss and extending her hand. “Come on. Let’s go exploring.”

Sherlock took her hand with a grateful sigh, and followed her.

They spent the afternoon exploring the fields behind her house. It was beautiful. He could see everything so _clearly,_ clearer than he ever had before. He could _feel_ things, too, and it didn’t overwhelm him-- he could feel the texture of the grass and the bark of the trees and the prickly points of a pinecone and it didn’t _hurt,_ it didn’t feel _bad_ and _wrong_ like it usually did. It felt beautiful and honest and pure. He told Alice that, and she smiled and agreed.

They drank water out of a stream and it was so delicious, he felt like he’d never tasted water before. Then they laid on their backs and looked at the clouds, and when they tired of that, they rolled over and stared at one another’s palms, mapping out the lines like their fortunes were printed there in the peaks and valleys of their flesh.

Alice didn’t kiss him again, but she stroked his hair and he stroked hers and the touch felt okay, it felt good, it felt _wonderful._ Everything was simple and peaceful. Everything was finally,_ finally_ alright.

In the months that followed, he and Alice were inseparable. She was his light, his guide, his conduit to the outside world. They were outcasts and misfits, but they were _together, _and he loved being_ together _with her. He bought combat boots and wore eyeliner and pierced his lip. She took him dancing in London for her birthday, and he made out with a boy. He worried she’d be angry, but on the train ride home she just kissed his cheek and said it was her favourite birthday ever.

And oh, the fun they had together. It wasn’t just the drugs. Of course, there _were _drugs-- of all types, a staggering variety, an endless buffet of uppers and downers and everything in between. Sherlock found he loved cocaine. Snorted, then tired of the wildly unpredictable results, he took to making his own magic elixir that could be taken intravenously. Alice preferred pills, but she wasn’t picky. After all, it wasn’t about the drugs. It was about the _adventures._

And the _adventures_ they had! In the fields and forests behind their houses, on the roof of their school, at house parties in the dodgy part of town, at clubs in London on the weekends, God, the _adventures!_ Nothing was boring when he was with Alice. She could light up his whole world.

He dreamed of cutting her open. Of slicing through her soft, pale skin and carving out her chest cavity. Of rearranging her insides in a likeness of his own, a Piccaso-esque self-portrait of a man wholly transformed.

He told her this. He told her all this and more, and she just threw her head back and laughed, and took another hit. The next week she presented him with a drawing: charcoal and pencil on Strathmore 500. It showed her body flayed open, pinned back like the wings of some great moth, exposing the glistening gore within. Her organs were an elegant jumble, repositioned in a grotesque configuration that, if one looked closely, resembled a human face. And if Sherlock looked hard enough, he could see the angles of his jawline reflected in the image of her freshly mangled ribs.

It was love. Love, in the only way he knew how.

He knew when she started using fentanyl. He knew. He knew, but he didn’t say, because there weren’t words for _no_ and _please_ and _don’t_ in the special vocabulary that only the two of them shared.

The day that she was buried, he lingered at her grave long after everyone else had left. And then he beat her headstone with his fists until his knuckles split open and the marble was streaked with blood, screaming the singular thought his brain could still form:

_You cannot leave me here._

_You cannot leave me here._

And yet, _here_ is where he is. Here, with a partner. And a daughter. And a family. And the Work. Living a life finally worth saving.

And the man in his arms-- he’s worth it. God, he’s worth all of it, and more.

He has Dark thoughts about John sometimes, too, of course. Things like that don’t just go away. He has fantasies of drinking his blood, or of splitting open his ribcage so Sherlock could crawl inside him, or of cradling John’s still-beating heart in his hands. He’s told John these things. And while John seemed more _amused_ than _enthusiastic_ about it like Alice had been, he didn’t run away screaming. He just quirked a lopsided smile and ruffled Sherlock’s hair and held him close, kissing his forehead and affirming his love.

It’s a good love. A kind love.

A forgiving love.

An _accepting_ love.

He burrows against John’s side and buries his nose in the soft skin at the base of his neck, inhaling deeply. John’s pheromones are so soothing to him; his whole body is conditioned to associate them with pleasure and happiness and _home. _ Even here, in the uninviting setting of his most tumultuous and angst-riddled years, John’s presence reminds him that he is safe and welcome and _wanted._ It many ways, John’s made him a member of his own family again, after so many years on the outside. It’s yet another debt he does not know how to repay. 

Beside him, John shifts and hums contentedly, then turns his head to peer down at him, eyes blinking open slowly in the soft grey light.

“Hi there.”

“Hi, John.”

“Were you feeling frisky, or just smelling my neck for entertainment?”

Sherlock should perhaps be embarrassed at being caught out, but like most things with John, he doesn’t mind. “Can it be both?”

John chuckles and rolls over to face him so that their noses are touching, eyes meeting in the pale dawn, arms slung low around each others’ waists. “You doing alright? I know being here is hard. Are you anxious about the party today?”

Sherlock runs his perpetually-icy toes absentmindedly up John’s muscular calf, which John mercifully ignores. “A little. It’s just… difficult. Seeing my family sometimes.”

John reaches up and cups his jaw tenderly.

Sherlock leans into the touch. “I did… a lot of bad things when I was younger. Not just the drugs. Stealing. Lying. That sort of thing.” Their voices are low, barely more than murmurs, and he feels like he’s telling John some sort of deep, dark secret. Even though he knows damn well that John already knows all of this, all of this and more. Despite what Sherlock may insinuate in his less-than-generous moments, John Watson is not a fool, and Sherlock is under no illusion that John thinks he passed his youth in blissful naivete. But still. It feels important to say it out loud. 

John gives him a wane little smile. “I know. But they still love you anyway. You just need to learn to let them.”

Sherlock shifts and pulls himself impossibly closer to John, entangling their legs and bowing his head to press his forehead against John’s sternum. “I know.” His response is muffled beneath the duvet and the soft fabric of John’s t-shirt. “I just don’t always know how.”

John’s fingers make their way to his hair, which he begins to comb through with soft, soothing strokes. “I know. But you found a way to let me, didn’t you? And I think that’s worked out alright so far.”

Sherlock pulls away in mock scandalisation. _ “So far?”_

John just grins and leans in for a kiss.

They kiss slowly, languidly, a careful slide of lips and tongues. It all feels quiet and precious in these gentle hours of an early morning, so much so that Sherlock’s nearly surprised when he shifts his hips to find himself hardened and wanting against John’s thigh. But a slight maneuver of his pelvis confirms that John is in a similar state, and he relaxes into the sensation.

John’s hands are strong and steady around his waist as they move, breaths shallow and solid as they find their rhythm. Sherlock lets his hands wander; one he rests on John’s chest, the other he runs up his back, across his shoulders, over the back of his neck, then finally up to cradle his head in his palm, John’s feather-soft hair light and cool juxtaposed against the heat of his scalp.

Sherlock lets out a huff.

John breaks the kiss to peer at him with interest. “What’s so funny?”

Sherlock decides to be honest. He doesn’t feel capable of lying to John, not here in this moment, not now. “I was thinking about using your skull as a bowl.”

John looks momentarily taken aback, but he recovers quickly. “A bowl, eh? And what were you thinking of putting in this bowl?” He brings up a hand to lovingly brush Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead.

Sherlock bites his lip as he pauses to consider it. “Maybe ‘bowl’ is the wrong word. I think I’d use it as a dish. As a candy dish.”

John’s lips quirk up in amusement. “A _candy _dish? Why’s that, because all my thoughts are so_ sweet?” _He waggles his eyebrows lecherously.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, reconsidering. “No. Maybe not a candy dish. Perhaps I’d put mints in it. I’d put it out in the office, next to the Client Chair. You’re always saying we should pay more attention to client services.”

John giggles at that, and licks his lips. “So you want to use my skull as a mint dish for our clients.”

“Or maybe chocolate. I’d fill it up with those little round Swiss chocolates you get sometimes. I’d say they were for the clients, but really I’d eat them all myself.”

“You never were much good at sharing me.” And with that, John leans back in for a searing kiss before rolling onto his back and pulling Sherlock on top of him.

It takes Sherlock a few minutes to process their position. They’re still kissing, lips skimming jawlines and earlobes and carotid arteries fluttering fragiley against breakable skin. He’s so lost in the sensation that it comes almost as a shock when he registers that John’s legs are spread, thighs wrapped tight around his waist, ankles hooked behind his lower back, pelvis pressing up in smooth undulations as they move against one another.

It’s not that John _never _spreads his legs for Sherlock. He does, any time Sherlock asks, and he even offers it sometimes apropos of nothing (though Sherlock doesn’t usually take him up on the offer). It’s just that Sherlock’s legs spread so _naturally _when he’s in sexual scenarios, whether he’s with John or even just masturbating; it’s as though his body’s default inclination is to _present_ for penetration. And that’s _perfect,_ that’s _wonderful, _because John _loves _to penetrate him, and he does so with gusto, (nearly) as frequently and as commandingly as Sherlock desires.

But this morning John’s got his legs wrapped around Sherlock and Sherlock is moving on top of him, and it feels _good,_ it feels _lovely,_ it feels _bloody fantastic, _actually, and Sherlock rolls his spine to angle his pelvis so that their cocks align perfectly, eliciting a gasp from the man beneath him. They continue to move in a quiet, slow, deliberate rhythm, the heat between them building in a dazzling crescendo as their breath intermingles in hot, frantic puffs. Eventually Sherlock becomes so distracted by the overwhelming tightness between his legs that he gives up on kissing John altogether and just rests his forehead against John’s and keeps moving, letting his transport guide him closer and closer to bliss.

John’s thighs tighten and lock Sherlock into place. Sherlock pulls back and peers down at John inquisitively-- why was John stopping them _now?_

John grins up at him, his cheeks rosy from the beautiful sex flush he gets when he’s aroused. Sherlock’s eyes trace his capillaries, his _gorgeous _capillaries, those perfect, delicate webs thrumming hot with life beneath John’s precious epidermis…

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock reluctantly drags his gaze away from John’s blood-red cheeks to meet his eyes instead. _Eye contact. Right. Important during intimacy._

John, luckily, still seems mildly amused by Sherlock’s distractedness. “I asked if you’d like to fuck me.”

Sherlock purses his lips and considers. Topping can be a bit of a gamble for him sometimes-- it can be too much input, too much sensation, too much pressure, and he’ll lose his erection and ruin the encounter. (Well, perhaps _ruin_ is a bit of a strong word; It’s generally more of a _delay_ while they amicably switch positions and get Sherlock prepped and then John takes over and Sherlock can just relax and enjoy while John penetrates him like he usually does. So it’s not a _complete _disaster. Just a bit… unfortunate.)

But this morning, everything is feeling good. He’s not overstimulated or distracted or anxious. He’s here, safe, with John, in bed. And that’s a good thing. That’s a wonderful thing. And upon reflection, it seems that yes, putting his cock inside John sounds rather appealing indeed.

“I… yes. Yes, I’d like to.” He keeps his voice steady and confident. John loves enthusiastic verbal consent.

Sure enough, John lights up like a dinoflagellate in the darkness. “Mmkay. Grab the lube?”

Sherlock reluctantly extricates himself from between John’s legs to stagger over to their overnight bag, where he proceeds to fish around in the side pocket until he procures the familiar bottle. Suddenly, he pauses.

“Um, I don’t think… I don’t think we packed condoms.” John doesn’t much care for the sensation of come inside himself (a stance which never ceases to baffle Sherlock-- it’s one of Sherlock’s favourite things in the _world)_, so Sherlock usually wears a condom on the rare occasions that he tops.

“Don’t worry about it, love.”

Sherlock falters and freezes, knuckles tightening around the lube as he’s paralyzed with hesitation. “But… you don’t like… you don’t like the mess.” He doesn’t want to make John do something he doesn’t like.

John’s tone is patient and non-confrontational. “I don’t love it, no, but I can have a shower before breakfast, yeah? It’s not a big deal, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bites his lip, still standing stock still with his erection tenting his pajama bottoms obscenely, nipples hardening beneath his undershirt in the cool air of the bedroom. “But. But I don’t want you to. To endure it. Just because I want it.”

John sits up and extends his hand towards Sherlock commandingly. Sherlock blinks at him. John nods towards his upturned palm. Reluctantly, Sherlock steps forward and takes his hand, letting John pull him back into the warmth of their bed. He tips them over until they’re lying on their sides, face to face, and clasps Sherlock’s hands in his.

“Sherlock, I promise that I will never, ever allow you to do something that I’m not comfortable with. The same way I trust you to let me know what’s _good_ and _not good_ for you… that’s how you have to trust me when we do this. Okay?”

Sherlock lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, anxiety evaporating from his body like acetone in a hot laboratory. “Okay.”

“Good.” John smiles. “Now let’s get naked, shall we?”

It’s a rather unerotic fumble of pajamas and sheets and blankets and pants, but soon enough John’s pulling the covers back up over them, enveloping them in a warm, intimate cocoon. Sherlock presses his nude body against the length of John’s side and leans forward to nibble his earlobe. Their giggles quickly turn to moans.

Sherlock rocks his erection against the flesh of John’s hip as he takes John’s hardened member into his hand. He strokes John slowly, firmly, delighting in the way John’s cock twitches and throbs in his grip. He waits until the tip is slick with precome before lowering his palm to cup John’s balls, guiding his fingers to press gently behind them.

John’s gasp is unmistakable as his legs spread and his thighs hitch up, his body eager for more stimulation to his perineum. Sherlock complies enthusiastically, fondling John’s sac as he increases the pressure of his fingers behind it.

“Oh, God, _Sherlock…” _ Sherlock wants to see the look on John’s face right now, _he wants to see it so badly,_ but he’s still teething at John’s earlobe in that way that sends gooseflesh rippling across the scarred flesh of John’s shoulder and he knows John wouldn’t want him to stop. So he doesn’t.

When he does eventually pull away to fumble frantically for the lube, John’s chest is heaving and his eyes are bright and his pupils are so dilated that if he didn’t know better, Sherlock would think he’s high as a kite. But he’s not. _Sherlock_ is doing this to him.

_Sherlock_ is what’s making John Watson feel this good.

The thought is so erotic that Sherlock lets out a whimper of his own as he coats his pointer finger with lube. Then he reaches down between John’s legs, and guides his finger to his furled opening.

John arches at the initial penetration and his eyes slam shut, but he doesn’t cry out and he doesn’t tell Sherlock to stop. He holds his breath resolutely until Sherlock’s sunk in to the second knuckle, and only then does he let his eyes flutter open and his lungs exhale.

“Alright?” Sherlock begins to move his finger slowly back and forth, testing the waters.

“Yeah. It’s good.” John’s voice is a bit tight - he’s always apprehensive during anal penetration, so Sherlock knows not to take it personally. He watches in rapt anticipation as John reaches up to take his own cock in hand and slowly begins to stroke himself in time with Sherlock’s finger.

John isn’t able to maintain an erection during anal penetration. That fact continues to boggle Sherlock’s mind, but he’s been resoundingly assured (by both John and the Internet at large) that this is an incredibly common reaction that has no bearing on the receiving partner’s enjoyment of the act. So slowly but surely, Sherlock is learning to disassociate arousal from erection, and trust John to know what he wants.

Sherlock presses a series of soft kisses against John’s hairline as he fingerfucks him, and John’s hand moves resolutely up and down his own thick shaft as he surrenders to Sherlock’s ministrations. Before too long, Sherlock withdraws his finger and adds more lube, then presses back in with two.

They start kissing again as Sherlock scissors his fingers, the sounds catching in John’s throat horny and desperate and beautiful. Sherlock begins to piston his fingers more earnestly, marveling at the way he can feel John’s passage unclenching around him to make way for the intrusion. John’s legs twitch and spasm as they splay open wider, and Sherlock begins to rut more frantically against John’s hip.

“Add another.” John’s voice is no less commanding when he’s doing this than when he’s topping, and Sherlock reacts instantly, withdrawing his hand to drizzle more lube over his digits and then pressing them back into John’s body with intoxicating haste.

“Oh… oh, _fuck, _Sherlock,_ I’m ready. _ I’m ready.”

Sherlock pulls back from where he was lapping hungrily at the crook of John’s neck, and takes in the state of the man beside him.

The sex flush has spread all the way down John’s torso, accentuating the way John’s nipples stand peaked and pinched on his chest. His abdomen is tight and trembling, and his legs are spread wide and welcoming. His cock is limp but still deep red and engorged, and John’s hand continues to jerk it in steady, rhythmic pulls. John’s lips are parted and his hair is mussed and he is so, so beautiful that for a moment, Sherlock can barely breathe.

Finally, he gets his wits about him enough to react.

“Okay. Okay. Um. Let me just…” He withdraws his fingers in a slick slide, eliciting a gasp and a wince from John. He almost hesitates, but John’s continuing to resolutely tug at his own cock, indicating his arousal hasn’t faltered. Sherlock pulls himself up onto his knees and situates himself between John’s spread legs, then pours a generous amount of lube into his palm and spreads it over his cock.

He’s gone a little soft in anticipation of this moment. There’s always a chance he’ll get overstimulated, and it usually happens during the initial act of penetration, so he supposes it’s normal that he gets nervous. But still, he wants to do this. For John.

John notices too, and before Sherlock can stop him, he’s propped himself up on one elbow and reached forward to grasp Sherlock’s cock in his free hand. Before Sherlock can react, John’s begun to stimulate them both in tandem, his grip firm and strokes quick and brisk.

“Oh, God.... John, fuck, _John…” _The sensation feels so good that Sherlock’s suddenly having trouble keeping himself upright, and he has to reach down and grab John’s thigh to prop himself up while John pleasures him. His eyes fall shut and his head tips back and he loses him in the deliriously delicious sensation of being manually stimulated by John Watson, sex-god extraordinaire.

“There. Now you’re ready, too.” John sounds infuriatingly smug as he releases Sherlock’s member and settles back into the pillows. Sherlock blinks his eyes open and looks down to note that yes, indeed, his prick is now _incredibly _hard and looks rather capable of penetrating stone.

John reaches back to grip behind his knees, then pulls his thighs up towards his chest. Sherlock takes his own cock in hand and guides it forward until the head is resting against John’s opening.

John takes a deep breath, but he’s grinning, and Sherlock’s grinning too, and the next thing he knows he’s pressing forward, slowly enveloping his turgid length in the screaming hot heat of John’s body.

“Ahhhh… ahhhh…. Ahhhh…” John’s eyes have fallen shut and he’s taking deep, measured breaths. Sherlock can tell from the way his rim is clenching and unclenching that he’s working to make his body relax, to ease out enough of the tension to take Sherlock all the way in. John’s brow furrows in concentration as he breathes, and his look of rapt, resolute focus is so adorable that Sherlock almost _giggles. _ But then John tips his pelvis a bit and arches his back and Sherlock slips inside up to the hilt, and he tips forward as his palms slam down on either side of John’s head and suddenly, they’re both swearing through clenched teeth as the sensation of being fully joined overpowers them.

“Nngh. _Nngh._ You alright, Sherlock?” Sherlock forces his eyes open to find John peering up at him in anticipation.

Sherlock takes stock of his transport. He’s inside John, and John’s body feels_ incredible _wrapped tight around his prick. Sherlock’s breathing is quick but even, his heartbeat accelerated but steady, his mind aroused but not reeling. He’s not overstimulated, he’s not panicking. This is going well. He’s doing fine.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. God, you feel _amazing,_ John. Does this feel okay?” He shifts a bit, and John grunts at the intrusion.

“Yes. It feels fantastic, love. You’re perfect, you know that?”

Sherlock blushes and averts his eyes coyly, but he knows John doesn’t miss the way his prick gives a hearty _throb_ at the praise.

“Want to start moving? Slow at first, remember. But just do whatever your body tells you feels good. I’ll let you know if anything’s not good for me.”

Sherlock nods. “Alright.”

John leans up and presses a quick peck against his lips. “Alright. Go ahead, love.”

Sherlock shifts his pelvis back, taking in the way he can feel his member move through the tight ring of muscle at John’s entrance. It feels so damn _good,_ it’s almost without intention that he reverses direction and drives back in, taking care not to push too fast. John needs to be opened slowly. He likes to be taken _gently._ And that, Sherlock can do.

John smiles as Sherlock finds a slow, rocking rhythm. One hand finds its way to Sherlock’s lower back, where it begins to guide his thrusts to maximize John’s pleasure. The other hand Sherlock can feel snake between them, where John wraps it around his own member and continues to fondle himself. John’s lips fall open and he sighs.

Sherlock makes love to him as sweetly as he can. His fists clench the pillow beside John’s head as the waves of pleasure ricochet up his spine, but he forces himself to keep his movements steady and deliberate. He moves in deep, undulating thrusts, taking care to aim the head of his cock towards that sweet spot he knows makes John’s toes curl, even if it doesn’t topple him over the brink of ecstasy like it does for Sherlock. Sure enough, before too long John is panting and grunting, jerking his softened cock frantically as his other hand ventures lower to cup Sherlock’s arsecheek. He grips it firmly and pulls _up, harder, tighter,_ and Sherlock gets the picture: Faster, now. Faster.

Sherlock reaches up with one hand to brace against the headboard as he begins to move in earnest, and John’s head thrashes from side to side as the pleasure builds up within him. He’s gripping Sherlock’s arse so hard it’s almost _painful,_ forcing him to move in more demanding strokes.

Then, without warning, John slips the tip of his pointer finger directly into Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock nearly blacks out. He doesn’t actually realise he’s completely frozen in place until he dimly registers John’s anxious voice from beneath him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay? I’m sorry, I got caught up in the moment, I didn’t mean to--”

John’s finger is gone. _Unacceptable. _

_“Do it again.” _ The words come out a low growl, as if the voice is hardly his own.

John stares up at him, apparently confused. “What?”

“Holy _shit,_ John, put your finger in me. Please. Fuck, put two of them in me, put _all_ of them in me, Christ, that felt incredible--”

“That was… good?”

“Yes, it was amazing, incredible, could you not_ tell?”_ He’s trying not to get exasperated here, but honestly, how could John be so unobservant so as not to be able to see that the act had been so utterly consuming that he’d been paralyzed with arousal?

“Um, well, no, I couldn’t tell, since you completely froze and then stared down at me like I’d just yelled Mycroft’s name.”

Sherlock groans as he struggles to prop himself up on his knees without slipping out of John altogether, then procures the lube and presses it demandingly into John’s palm. “Don’t ever mention my brother in bed again unless you want to risk me regurgitating all over you. Now, slick up your fingers and put them in my arse.”

“Yes, your majesty.” John manages a mock bow of his head (no small feat considering that Sherlock still had him entirely impaled). Sherlock just rolls his eyes and sighs with contentment as John reaches around him to push a single slick digit inside him.

“No, not one. All of them.”

“Sherlock, you’re not prepped--”

“John, you’ve got so much lube on your hand we could subsist off of it for weeks. Please. I want… I want it to burn. Make it burn. Please.”

John bites his lip, seeming to weigh his options, but clearly his arousal gets the better of him, and the next thing Sherlock knows he’s being split open wide by four of John’s thick, strong digits sinking deep into him.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck…” _ Sherlock falls forward, both hands gripping the headboard this time, and he proceeds to piston into John’s hole with every ounce of strength in his body.

And it’s…

God, it’s…

It’s so much. It’s so much and so perfect and he can barely see through the bleary haze of sweat and arousal. Below him, he watches as John takes his free hand and starts to jerk his own cock once more, and Sherlock moans as he swivels between the burning pain in his arse and the transcendent pleasure around his prick.

“Ngh, ngh, fuck, yeah, yeah, Sherlock, yeah…” John’s grunting under his breath with each forceful thrust. It’s a lovely sound, and Sherlock wants more of it. He hammers into him harder.

“Sh-Sh-Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, the _headboard…”_

“What about it?” Sherlock can barely gasp out the words between the violent oscillations of his pelvis.

“It-it--NGH! NGH! It’s banging-- _fuck--_ against the wall… your-- NGH! NGH! NGH! Your parents might hear…”

Sherlock grits his teeth and attempts to consider this harsh reality despite the heady sensations driving his current actions. Finally he conjures a response.

“Nonsense. Their-- ngh! Their room is all the way down the hall. Mycroft’s is next door.” He resumes plowing into John as hard as physically possible.

“Sherlock! Not! The! Point!” John’s protests are punctuated by the force of Sherlock’s thrusts, but his words have an edge to them that Sherlock knows he’d best not ignore. Reluctantly, he removes his hands from the headboard and places them resolutely back on the pillow beside John’s head.

“Thank you. Now, as you were.”

With a mutual grin, Sherlock proceed to fuck John Watson for all he’s worth.

He’s not quite sure what gets him to the turning point. It may be the way John starts to spread his fingers inside Sherlock’s channel, stretching him wider, intensifying the burn of the penetration from behind. Or maybe it’s the way John’s body clamps down in ripples around Sherlock’s turgid length each and every time he hammers against his prostate. Or maybe it’s the way John’s eyes look, gazing up at Sherlock, so full of trust and love that Sherlock will never, ever find the words to tell this man what he means to him.

All he knows is that one moment he’s coasting on a wave of ecstasy, and the next he’s collapsing onto John’s body and wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight against his chest as Sherlock wails into the pillow and pistons into John’s relentless tight heat. And he’s coming, his cock clenching so hard he feels like he’s about to turn inside out with the force of it. His arse clamps down _hard_ around John’s fingers and the sensation makes him scream, but luckily he’s already face-first in the pillow so it hardly matters. It’s a dual pleasure so intense he can’t quantify it, he can only writhe and twitch and flail in the throes of it and wait for the ecstasy to ebb.

And ebb it does, but Sherlock has no time to bask in the moment. Before he can process what’s happening, John’s rolled Sherlock off of him and onto his stomach, yanking his hips up and spreading his knees apart. He hears the unmistakable sound of John stroking himself brusquely to full hardness, and then John impales him in a singular, brutal stroke.

John fucks him so hard and fast, Sherlock can’t move. His body is so overstimulated he can’t seem to process what’s happening to his arse, and perhaps that’s for the best, since John is riding him in a demanding frenzy generally reserved for their sessions. He buries his face in the pillow and bites down to bury the screams, and his palms reach forward to brace against the headboard, holding his body steady for John’s use.

John pounds into him, railing against his prostate, and Sherlock stiffens as he feels a new stream of come begin to leak from his oversensitive member. John’s milked him before, and this feels like that, so intense, it’s so _goddamn_ intense, he feels tears well up in his eyes as another trickle dribbles onto the sheets beneath him.

Then John collapses forward, chest pressed firmly against Sherlock’s back, and he grips the headboard and reams him so forcefully that Sherlock feels dizzy. The headboard is slapping against the wall in an obscene staccato, and Sherlock distantly notes that suddenly, John doesn’t seem to mind the noise quite so much.

All too soon, it’s over. John pulls his prick out and slams back in once, twice, and on the third time he comes, pulsing hot come into Sherlock’s passage in wave after wave of transcendent pleasure. Sherlock arches his back and swivels his hips and takes it all, doing his best to prolong John’s orgasm as long as he’s physically able. John is silent throughout, but the volume of come Sherlock dimly registers is being pumped into his body tells him all he needs to know.

Sherlock comes to still face-down, legs splayed, sweaty and spent and delirious with satisfaction. He blinks his eyes open to find John next to him, face-up, body shimmering with the sweat of his exertion, and grinning over at Sherlock like a maniac.

Sherlock grins back.

They lie like that, just grinning at one another like idiots, for a long, long time.

Finally, John breaks the silence. “That was. Um. Christ, Sherlock. That was...amazing.”

Sherlock purses his lips in consideration. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“God almighty. Not sure how I’m supposed to get out of bed after that.” John runs his fingers through his hair, and Sherlock’s delighted to notice that the sweat makes it stand up at all sorts of pointy, hilarious angles, and he giggles despite himself.

John reaches over and flicks his bum. “What’s so funny?”

“Your hair. You look like a lunatic.”

“Well. Guess now I _really_ fit in with your family.”

Sherlock grabs the pillow out from beneath his head and tries to swat John with it, but John’s too quick. He’s already standing, pulling on his pajama bottoms and rooting around for his shirt.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock glowers at the thought of John breaking up their post-coital banter so soon.

“Well, considering the lack of an en-suite in this room, I figure it’s best I get showered before anyone else in your family wakes up. Would prefer not to do a walk of shame in front of your poor mother looking like I’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, John. It’s only Saturday.”

“It’s a figure of speech, love.” John bends down and presses a kiss against his forehead then turns to take his leave, but pauses when he reaches the door. “But honestly, Sherlock. All kidding aside… That was… a hell of a way to start the day. You are… really special. I want you to know that.” And with a wink, he disappears down the hall.

Sherlock melts back into the sheets with a satisfied smile.

He knows he’s the best John’s ever had. And not just because John’s been with him the longest, or because he’s the only one to have ever had a Dom/Sub relationship with John, or because he’s had the _kinkiest_ sex with him. Although all those things are true. He knows it because he can tell by the extent of the flush in John’s cheeks, by the thermal indicators on his skin, by the prolonged elevation of his heart rate post-ejaculation.

He can say all this because he has the data to back it up. And while he’s pretty sure it’s_ a bit not good _that he collected that data, sometimes he’s glad he has it, so he can preen over it like a dragon lording over its precious treasure.

A long time ago, before he and John were together, Sherlock _may_ have come up with an experiment to determine which of John’s partners gave him the most sexual pleasure. He’d come up with a list of indicators, and determined which ones would be easiest to observe without incurring suspicion.

So every time John would bring one of his conquests home, Sherlock would wait for them to finish, then devise an excuse to make John come downstairs: a fire in the lab (kitchen), a broken radiator, a malfunctioning kettle. And while John fidgited and fussed with the offending item, Sherlock would _discreetly_ analyze his most discernible tells. And then record them in his journal.

Jeanette had been quite good. Sara, lackluster at best. And Mary… Sherlock never read Mary. Too painful.

But thanks to his previously-collected data, he can conclusively say that he, Sherlock Holmes, is the best lay that John _Three-Continents_ Watson has ever had. And it’s with that reassurance that he can lie here and bask in post-coital bliss, ready for whatever the day may bring.

An hour and a half later (at what Sherlock assumes most people would consider a _reasonable_ time to wake up), he and John make their way downstairs to find the rest of the family already gathered there, Sherlock’s mother just pouring the coffee.

“Ah, there you are dears! Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully, thanks.” John gives his kindest _good son_ smile, all soothing and docile and polite, and Sherlock smirks as John takes the offered mug of coffee from his mother, delighting in the secret knowledge of where _exactly_ those fingers had been earlier that morning.

“Fascinating. I found myself unable to stay asleep this morning.” Mycroft’s dry drawl over the top of the newspaper garners a pair of raised eyebrows from John.

“Is that so?” John sounds sincerely perplexed. “I found our morning to be quite restful. I might even go so far as to call it… a _delight.”_

And with that beautiful, blissful innuendo, John turns to pop two pieces of bread in the toaster, leaving a scandalized Mycroft in his wake.

Sherlock sits down at the table with his family, and gloats.

**Author's Note:**

> I realised that lately i’ve been writing a lot of domestic angst & fluff and as I started digging into my upcoming case fic, it felt really important to emphasise that despite all his progress, domesticity is not a natural state for Sherlock. He’s adapted to coupledom and fatherhood, but they are learned behaviours for him rather than inherent traits. He works hard at it and finds it fulfilling, but being part of a family doesn’t just magically alter his personality-- he has to make an effort. Whether or not you agree with John’s flippant “Aspberger’s” diagnosis from HOB, I do write Sherlock as being slightly neurologically atypical, and wanted to have a little celebration of his unique thought patterns and how it doesn’t mean he loves John or Rosie any less; just differently.


End file.
